She turned her gaze on him as if to prove his point, smug and serene despite the severity of her father’s illness. Or, for all he knew, perhaps because of it. That seemed somehow more likely, where she was concerned.
“That’s what I like about you, Gravis,” she said. “You shun everything fair, everything alluring, and cleave always to what is simple and stark, what can be laid bare at a glance. Even your wife is plain.”
Gravis ought to strike her one for that, but everything she said was true. “I’m in no mood for jibes, your ladyship,” he said instead, like a sullen young subordinate.
“Then I’ll be brief,” she replied. “Esthrades is in crisis. I think it is time for you to convene your men in the hall.”
“Only my lord the marquis can give such an order,” Gravis said immediately.
The look she gave him was indulgent; he wanted to spit at the sight of it. “You well know he is indisposed. He has difficulty commanding his own four limbs, let alone more distant vassals.”
“And so I should countenance a usurper to stand in his place? Lady, not while I live.”
What irritated him most of all was how genuine the woman’s good humor was. There were some who smiled to hide the rage that stuck in their throats, the gall that roiled their stomachs. But her amusement, the wry delight she could find even in intended insults, rang true every single time. “Gravis,” she said, “I know you value a candid tongue.”
“I’d rather know the heart behind it,” he said, “but yes, I do.”
“Then let me speak plainly.” She let her smile fade, and gazed brazenly on him, with one flick of her eyes toward Verrane to show the old woman she was not forgotten. “I know the great respect you have for my father. However, I must confess that I have never shared it. I find him and have ever found him neither a wise ruler nor a worthy man, and my life with him has been naught but one quarrel after another. I doubt we were meant to coexist.” She paused. “I assume this is not news to you.”
“Indeed it is not,” Gravis let himself growl.
“Then when I tell you, Gravis, that the illness that now has him in its grip causes him so much suffering that even I would grant him peace if I could—if you will not believe for mercy’s sake, at least believe that he is too far gone now to answer for anything—when I tell you this, Gravis, for it is the gods’ plain truth, I trust you will understand the full import of my words.” She paused again, drew in a breath. “If not, then I’ll be plainer still. The man you call your lord is in his last illness. He lives still, but he will nevermore rise from his bed. He will leave his chamber only in a coffin. That is all I can say for him.”
Gravis could not bring himself to look at her, nor at the empty throne, the ancient tapestries. His gaze found purchase somewhere near his feet, on the tiled stone floor, gray upon gray. “Then Esthrades is lost,” he said quietly.
She let another smile flick across her face, swift and fleeting. “Why do you say that?”
Gravis gritted his teeth. “Because, my lady, I will take orders from none but my sworn lord, and that dying man is he.”
“And when he is dead?”
“He is not dead,” Gravis said. “I do not like hypotheticals.”
She sighed as if indulging a simple child, but there was nothing of indulgence in her eyes, which had gone coldly, dangerously hard; Gravis could almost have wished for the smirk again. “And I, sir, cannot and will not abide a lack of wit. Believe that I respect the abilities that allow you to execute your office, but do not play the fool with me or I will treat you as a fool deserves. Whether you admit the fact or no, I will imminently have your life in my hands, and you are not the only man in Esthrades capable of being captain of the guard.”
Gravis’s pride burned strong in him—pride driven by encroaching despair, but pride nonetheless. “You speak as if it matters,” he said. “What is it to me what you do with my life? Hallarnon’s imperator will have it soon enough, and yours as well.”
She shook her head. “I don’t blame you for believing it, Gravis, but you’re wrong.”
“And why is that, your ladyship, if I may ask?”
She strode idly to the nearest tapestry, running a finger along its edge. Gravis had forgotten what ancestor it depicted—a man standing on a promontory looking out to sea—but he didn’t doubt she knew all their stories by heart. “How do you imagine Imperator Elgar is feeling at this moment?”
“I have heard he is a man of solemn humor,” Gravis said, “but even such a man would not be blamed for dancing upon the Lanvaldian cobbles at such a juncture.”
She smiled. “And I would bet you twice the contents of my father’s treasury that he is in a fury.”
That got his attention. “What could he possibly have to be angry about?”
“The messenger to whom you spoke was not the only one to arrive at the hall tonight, Gravis,” she said, pacing back toward the throne. “I heard something very interesting from one of them—even though their supply lines remained unbroken, when Hallarnon’s forces broke the Lanvaldian army, they had nearly run out of the foodstuffs Elgar had set aside. In another two weeks they would’ve had to forage among the populace.”
Gravis shrugged. “So Elgar and his men won’t starve. Good for them.”
“If my father had been leading the invasion, Gravis, I would have said the same. But Imperator Elgar is not my father. His every maneuver bespeaks a cautious, nearly paranoid man. Such a man does not attack another country if he thinks victory is probable; he would not move without being certain, several times over, of success. He would plan for every pitfall, every possible thorn in his path, until victory was not a question of if but of when. He would calculate the time it would take him to wage his war, and then he would provision his men for that length of time and half again. But the war between Hallarnon and Lanvaldis has lasted just over six months, and he wins his victory with only two weeks’ worth of rations remaining? It isn’t like him.”
“He must have thought it would take him five months,” Gravis realized. “Perhaps even four.”
She grinned at him. “Precisely. So what Imperator Elgar sees, when he looks at his army, is not the unstoppable force that won him a new country, but the band of fools he overestimated by nearly two months.”
Gravis’s thoughts raced, hurrying to catch up with hers. “His figures were all wrong. He does not know his own strength as he thought he did, and that worries and infuriates him. He must take stock of his forces; he must redraw his plans again and again, incorporating the weaknesses he has discovered into his strategies.”
“It will be a long time indeed,” she finished, “before he gains the confidence to attack again. There is no hope for Lanvaldis, but for us there is very much hope indeed, provided we use our time wisely.” She shot Gravis a level stare. “First of all, you’ll need to learn to obey me.”
Gravis shook his head. “My lady—”
“We do not and will never agree on the subject of my father,” she interrupted. “But there is at least one thing more important to you than your service to him, and that is Esthrades itself. You love this land, Gravis, and I know it.”
Gravis wanted to say that a woman like her had no business speaking of service, or of love. Instead he gave the slightest of nods.
“So save Esthrades,” she said—it was not quite a command, and yet there was nothing about it of entreaty. “Summon your men to the hall.”
“But I”—Gravis seemed to have grown hoarse—“my lady, how can I trust you? Do you expect me to believe you love Esthrades?” Or anything at all, save your own person, he did not add.
She seemed to consider the question. “I suspect I shall love it, once it belongs to me,” she said. “And even if not, you need not fear on that account. I wish to rule, not to be ruled, and to that end no one will fight harder for Esthrades than I.” She regarded him calmly, smiling once more. “Well, Gravis?”
Where did she learn to speak so well? It was not from her
father; that was certain. She made him feel—or perhaps it was really true—that he had no choice. And so he looked away, at the empty throne, and said quietly, “It is done. I will call my men.”
He turned his back on her as he left, grateful not to have to look on those mocking eyes. Such a wretch of a woman knew nothing of a soldier’s pain, he told himself, but in thinking it, he only felt like a mongrel cur licking its wounds.
* * *
The capital had grown relatively quiet, and Shinsei found he was able to relax. With the Lanvaldian army ravaged, the Hallern soldiers had thought to command the city unopposed, but some unexpected civilian resistance had flared up in the streets. Fortunately, Shinsei was there to take care of it, and the damage to Hallarnon’s army was negligible. But his master, sour enough to begin with, was displeased at having to enter his new city to such a welcome. He had given Shinsei one more task: he was to scour the remaining districts for agitators before reporting to the palace. Shinsei was looking forward to getting some sleep, but a mission was a mission, and this one would not be difficult.
There was a bloody lock of hair stuck to his knee; the hair was not his. Shinsei frowned, then bent to remove it, and when he straightened again, there was a girl standing before him.
The girl was slightly built, a bit small for one who had fully grown. Her hair shone pale in the moonlight, though it was golden against the snow. She was dressed like an ordinary citizen, in heavy linen and white wool, the ends of her pale blue scarf flapping slightly in the wind. But she carried a sword, as thin and quick as she was. They faced each other in the darkened street, and Shinsei stopped, puzzled. She was not fleeing.
“Did you kill all these people?” Her voice, in the cold air, came very clear. It had a pleasant ring to it, not quite musical but reminiscent of it.
“Yes,” Shinsei answered.
Her eyes were bright and vibrant; he thought they were green. “Why?”
“We are invading,” Shinsei informed her—did she not know? “I was ordered to dispense with any resistance.”
She gestured at the corpses. “But these were no soldiers.”
“Yes,” Shinsei said patiently. “They were resisting me.”
She looked at the items strewn on the ground. “With brooms and shovels? These people were no threat. Why did you not press them to surrender?”
“I believe some of them attempted to,” Shinsei said. “But I am tired, and it was quicker to dispose of them.”
Her eyes were angry; her sword seemed somehow naked, gleaming and stripped bare. “It is a cowardly thing you have done,” she said.
Shinsei did not understand. “Why is that?”
“You slaughtered the weak,” she said, as if it were obvious. Shinsei thought, not for the first time, that there was something about her that made her seem very young indeed.
He tried to explain. “It is always the strong who win. That’s why they win.”
“Just because you have the brute strength of arms—”
“My will is strong enough too,” Shinsei said. “It must have been, or they would have defeated me.”
She was very quiet, very still. It made her like the snow. People must find her very beautiful, Shinsei thought. “And what is your will?” she asked. “Your strength is proven. But what do you wish for?”
“My will is my master’s will,” Shinsei said.
“And what does your master want?”
“He wants many things,” Shinsei said. “Today he wants your country.”
“Well,” she said quietly, “I guess he has it now.”
“He does,” Shinsei agreed.
“Then why are you still here?”
“Your people have angered him with their resistance,” Shinsei explained. “Before I can rejoin him, I must destroy any who seem capable of causing further unrest.”
For a moment the girl looked away from him, down the deserted street, and Shinsei thought she was uncertain. “Those who seem … capable?”
“It would not be you,” Shinsei said, wondering if that was what she feared. “You are only one girl. Soldiers, or mobs of civilians … those are my targets. You do not concern me.”
For some reason, she looked at him not with relief but anger, curling her fingers into a fist. “If my brother were here, you’d see what a truly capable person looks like. If he could fight, you’d never—none of you would get away with any of this! But even I—even I can be more than you think. I can stand between you and him.” She raised her sword. “I challenge you, soldier of Hallarnon, whoever you are. Let us see which is stronger—your will or mine.”
“Do not be foolish,” Shinsei said. “You cannot defeat me. My swordsmanship is perfect.”
“A battle is not over before it is fought,” she said stubbornly.
“You are capable of fleeing. You ought to flee,” Shinsei told her. “There is no reason for you to die.”
“There was no reason for any of these people to die,” she said, motioning again to the corpses. “And yet you killed them.”
“They were resisting me—”
“I am resisting you!” Her voice was loud; her gaze was level, proud and determined and clear. “So fight me.”
“I do not understand the reason for this waste,” Shinsei said slowly. “But if you truly intend to resist, I shall indeed kill you here.”
“You can try,” she said. “But I … I will protect him, no matter what. I do not fear you.”
In the seconds before they closed in combat, he examined her carefully. Her movements were quick, but she was very light, very slender, very young. She was incorrect; this fight was over before it began.
He shifted his grip on his sword, and struck.
* * *
It never snowed in Hallarnon anymore. The cold was just as bitter; some said it had even more bite. Some days the sky was so gray with clouds that you could swear the snow was caught up there, swirling perpetually, unable to fall. Three years since the fall of Lanvaldis, and Roger had walked the streets on many a cold winter’s night, but he couldn’t claim to have seen so much as a single flake. It was a pity—he’d always loved the snow.
Conflicting theories abounded; there was never a shortage of gossip in Sheath. Some said that, after conquering Lanvaldis, Imperator Elgar had found some hidden magic that stopped the snow from falling; some said it was the gods that had stopped it, as punishment for his atrocities. Some said it was the result of malevolent substances seeping into the earth and air, and some said it was just one of nature’s moods. One idea sounded as good as the next, as far as Roger was concerned, and he’d stopped thinking about it overmuch. But he did miss it, sometimes—the old winters, the way they used to be.
It still snowed in the north, in the country that used to be Aurnis; it had snowed in Lanvaldis as Elgar tightened his hold on it, parceling it out to administrators and filling its old castles with his soldiers. It still snowed in Reglay and Esthrades to the east, as their people waited anxiously to find out which of them Elgar would attack next—and then waited longer, as the months turned to years with only occasional border skirmishes to show for it. It did not snow in temperate Issamira to the south, but then it never had, so its residents could hardly be expected to worry about it. But the people of Hallarnon worried—about the snow, and about Elgar’s wars, and which would return first.
But Roger wasn’t one to wear himself out with worrying, and he settled for turning his eyes up to the cloudy sky, drinking in the chill fog of early morning. He’d look, and he’d muse for a bit, and then he’d put away that too-seductive word, adventure, and saunter off down the nearest alley, letting the day begin. Sometimes he thought of Lucius’s dragon—the one he had brought home that night, with its outspread wings and beautiful eyes. Lucius still treasured it, and sometimes, during late nights at the Dragon’s Head, when all those who didn’t know the trinket’s history had left, he’d bring it downstairs with him, set it down on the edge of the bar. He’d let it perch there as
the night marched on, keeping watch over them as they remembered. And Roger would sit by the fire with Seth, setting embers a-twirl with a stray twig.
He should have been a bard, Roger thought. He and Lucius both.
CHAPTER ONE
“You’re not feeding those birds again, are you?” Morgan called, and Seth started. He hadn’t realized she was awake. He tried to kick the crusts out of sight, but Morgan was already opening the door, squinting into the sun.
Valyanrend’s districts tended to be jumbled and haphazard more often than not, but the streets of Sheath seemed especially capricious, as if they’d been designed to make no sense. The slender lane that ran along the left side of the Dragon’s Head abruptly bent to cross in front of it, widening out as it continued east; on the tavern’s other side was what looked like a perfectly respectable cross street, but was in fact a blind alley culminating in an unforgiving brick wall nearly ten feet high. It was too narrow to admit much sun, but the birds seemed to like it anyway, and Seth could sweep the crusts that way to keep them out of the street. Morgan kept saying she’d find a use for the alley one day, but so far none of her plans had come to fruition.
She sighed. “Seth, you’re just teaching them to hang about. Let them fend for themselves, like everyone else.”
He turned to her. “Don’t you wish they could talk? The things they must have seen…”
Morgan laughed. “Well, they must not have been too impressed—wouldn’t have come back here if they had, would they? Of course, that’s presuming pigeons have any sense.” She reached out slowly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t feed them, all right? Gods know you need all the food you can spare for yourself.”
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